The Many-Worlds Interpretation Theory According to Matt Miller
by Celesteennui
Summary: He's not really your type, only tonight he's everything that you've ever wanted. Matt Miller/Reader (Surprise) rated for grown-up themed fun.


**Disclaimer:** Volition owns it all, I'm just having fun.

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Bars in your hometown that don't give two shits about the legal drinking age are few and far between. Even fewer and far between are places among those where you don't have to worry about gutting some creep. The Peach Pit may only have weird, fruity drinks on the menu (and expensive ones at that) but the bouncers and bartenders like you, so you trade good beer for a Purple Punktini and a dance floor that you won't have to paint red with the blood of an idiot. Dancing is your "you" time; it's sacred and you will not have it fucked with.

Tonight is an exception though. Tonight you saw _him_ and something inside of you started screaming.

Alone at one end of the bar, he's playing around on a _very_ expensive looking phone—or maybe it's a mini-computer—with a slight smile curling on his mouth. You never really had a type of guy that you were into but you certainly never thought that you might entertain the idea of a dude like this punching your V-card. Tall and thin but not scarecrowish, he's pale and looks even paler with his heavy eyeliner, black hair, and dark clothes. The outfit is something special too; it looks like Victorian swag fucked Goth sensibility and they had a baby that was all pinstripes, waistcoats, buckles, and boots. He's even wearing gloves. You have give him this much though, he makes it work in some strange, magnetic way.

You're not sure just how old he is, mid-twenties maybe. Older than you but not so much older that it would be creepy. Or at least it's not considering _you _are scoping _him_ out. At least it is until he notices your sideways stare and returns it with a smirk. Then it's mutual scoping and that's still cool in your book.

Virgin though you may be, that does not make you innocent. There's a collection of toys in your bedside drawer that would impress a lot of sex shop workers. You're a picky girl though and you're waiting for something of substance to come along. Not romance because, _wow_ that's some bullshit, but something, or someone really, who is interesting. _He_ is interesting.

"Hi," you say as you take the stool next to his.

"Hello." And he has an accent. Fantastic. If that didn't have you moistening up, the eyes do it. Those are some brilliant baby blues. They give you a once over that sends electric ripples down your spine. "I like your belt." And he reaches out to tug at the star-shaped buckle.

The sudden urge to have him ripping that belt out of the loops of your jeans is nigh indescribable. You hold it together enough to take a drink of your Punktini and say, "Thanks. Yours is cute too." Actually, it's unremarkable but, fuck it; you're trying to get laid.

He smirks. "We should form a club."

"We could swap," you suggest. "Mine's a little complicated though. Might take some help to get off." While you're sort of amazed that you could even think of a line like that, you're also infinitely proud. More importantly, it doesn't put him off.

He laughs and cocks his head. "Do you now? Were you looking for _my_ help?"

Dear god, yes. "I think I am."

Another chuckle and he's standing, offering you a hand. You take it without hesitation. Soft leather-clad fingers curl around your palm as he brings your wrist to his lips. If it were anyone else, you'd punch him in the dick and laugh as you walked off. As with so many things however, this guy makes something you might normally consider weird, work.

"Well, I don't think I can deny a lady's request." Fuck, it that line should be cheesy. _Why_ isn't it cheesy? Why are your panties flooding?

You must just be weirder than even you thought, you decide as you toss caution to the curb and allow him to escort you out the door. He only gets the lead for so long; halfway across the parking lot, the weight of his hand on the small of your back is setting you on fire and you're just _done_. With more force than you intend, you latch onto the collar of his jacket and pull him down to you.

Startled though he is, or so you're guessing by the noise that escapes his mouth on yours, he doesn't seem to mind. On the contrary, the surprised noise becomes a chuckle and his tongue slips past your lips. He kisses well, to say the least, better than anything you've ever had. Just the right amount of teeth and tongue to make you crazy, almost as if there was a formula to you that he knows.

You're not pissed when your back hits a wall, it's a tad surprising but not off-putting. It does something to you, being pressed between rough bricks and a lithe form. Powerless you most certainly aren't but he's piloting wherever this goes and you like that more than you thought was possible.

Your pulse is hammering by the time that you come up for air. Through the layers of his clothing, numerous as they may be, you can feel his doing the same, albeit he remains far more composed. He looks at you with those bright eyes through lowered lashes, still smirking and you can't find the will to be irritated. He doesn't give you the chance to be. One quick kiss to the corner of your mouth and he's exploring your neck.

Beneath your ear is a spot that drives you absolutely wild. You didn't know that until his teeth skimmed over it. You keen, digging your fingers into his jacket, and you feel him grinning against your throat. He bites the spot hard, not enough to break the skin but just enough to make sure everyone knows that he was here and you see stars.

When you come to, you've switched places. Sort of. His back is against the wall now, and yours is against his front. That belt buckle he liked so much—and which you were only sort of joking about being complicated—has been popped open and a hand is poised to slip in. He's still grinning and you find that you are as well.

Sliding an arm around to the nape of his neck, you curl your fingers into the soft hair there. You give him your assent with a kiss and he does not waste a moment.

He keeps his gloves on. Warm leather slides down your belly, between fabric and flesh, slowly spreading you open. One finger tests your folds, as if he can tell how wet you are with them on, while his thumb curls around your clit. Again, you're rendered a little blind, but in a really, really, wonderful way.

"Shh…" he mouths against the magical place beneath your ear. He doesn't sound like he wants you to be quiet at all. You didn't realize that you had screamed. On the heels of that realization, comes the one reminding you that you're letting a perfect stranger put his hand down your pants in a darkened corner of a relatively well-trafficked parking lot. Probably should care about that more.

And yet a second finger gliding over your G-spot says you in fact do not care.

His fingers move at a maddening pace. They dip in and then out, rubbing your clit in hard circles. He alternates: clockwise, counterclockwise, pinch. All while his teeth nip along the shell of your ear. A kiss is planted on your temple as he slips his fingers back into your slit. The leather is a strange sensation, but not unwelcome; you can feel his heartbeat through the material when the center of his palm is over your clitoris, cupping before his thumb swipes it.

The cycle repeats.

The hot pressure building in your cunt drives most of the air from your lungs and makes your knees tremble. If he weren't behind you, you'd be on your ass. Of course, he's the reason for this state and he seems rather satisfied with that. Or so you gather from the hard cock pressing at the ass he's so graciously keeping from the pavement.

You take what leverage you can and arch into him, making sure to grind down. His breath hitches in the hollow of your neck but his hand doesn't falter. In fact, the one that's been flattened against your ribcage retaliates.

When you left the house tonight, you pulled on your favorite shirt. It was made for a man and would swim on you had you not rolled the sleeves twenty or so times, undone every button, and knotted it just beneath your breasts. You had _not_ pulled on a bra.

Before you can protest—which, you're not sure that you would—he's yanked the knot apart. Warm leather cups your right breast, thumbing your nipple. It pebbles as he rolls it between his fingers and pinches. You wail again, though this time the sound is swallowed with his mouth over yours.

A juxtaposing, hyper-aware detachment settles in as his mouth trails away from your mouth and back across your jaw. You're all but naked in a parking lot with a strange man you just met. Three of his fingers are curling inside of you, stretching you blissfully just along the edges of pain while the heel of his palm grinds against your clitoris. Your hips are moving of their own volition to a rhythm that matches the pace of his hand. A cool night breeze caresses your exposed breasts as he alternates plucking your achingly hard nipples.

It's a sensory overload. If you were a car, you'd be pushing the red-zone, purring and roaring all at once. You're so close to boiling over, and yet you can't. Your trembling thighs and aching center are waiting for something, for one little push, though you don't know what.

His teeth rasp over the mark beneath your ear. "Are you going to come for me, love?

That's it. You scream and clench your fists as you fly apart in a frisson of heat so strong that everything goes black.

You're still secure, sagging against him once your senses reboot from their wonderful overload. Soothing noises are being murmured against your temple as one hand strokes your side and stomach. His fingers are still inside, scissoring open and closed in time to each clenching aftershock. You whimper and he takes the hint, pulling out from your hypersensitive folds.

You watch, enthralled, as soft leather slick with you emerges. He holds the hand up, wriggling the three fingers that had penetrated you, admiring them for a moment. They're absolutely soaked. You didn't think that he could be more attractive, but then he brings that gloved hand up to his mouth, sucking away every trace of your moisture. His eyes are locked on yours as he does it, finger by finger, vividly swirling his tongue on each tip.

That little grunt of surprise comes again when you spin in his arms and kiss him, but he melts into it quick enough. The glove slick, now slick with his saliva, cups your jaw and the other supports your bottom as you attempt to scale his frame. There's something incredibly heady about the taste of yourself on his palette; you wish you could swallow him alive.

He has to be ready to burst. There's a rock-hard erection nudging your hip. Yet when you reach down to finger his zipper and repay the favor, he stops you.

"I want to fuck you," he says, pulling your lower lip gently between his teeth.

"So fuck me," you say running a knuckle along the length of his cock. The barrier of his pants and underwear have to scratch something fierce. He shivers but he doesn't lose control.

"Not here, sweetheart," he kneads the curve of your ass and pushes your hips closer to his. His nose brushes the shell of your ear as he leans in to kiss the Magic Spot. "Girl like you deserves something proper."

Your heart hammers in your throat from excitement and arousal anew. "You have something in mind?"

He grins, bluer than blue eyes alight with promise. "I've got a room."

This is one of those situations that you would never, ever under any circumstances consider. While there are very few things you and your fists can't get out of, you're also usually not one to tempt fate at throwing you a curve ball. Fearless and brutal do not necessarily go hand-in-hand with reckless.

But you want him. You want him on his back, to put you on your back, to swallow his cock, and roughly a thousand other things that your can't even name.

You nod and he grins even more brightly, kissing you once more before helping you to straighten your clothes. He buckles your belt while you tie your shirt. An arm slides around your waist, leading you to a black Sovereign with a mirror gloss finish. He opens your door for you.

This could be a huge mistake. But then, is a mistake full of more blackout-good orgasms really a mistake?

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Matt leaves her in the car while he ducks into a gas station under the pretense of fueling up. It's only half a pretense; really, he does toss a hundred dollars at the attendant to go fill the Sovereign up and clean the windows. Alone in the mini-mart he pulls out his phone.

His esteemed Galactic Empress and the love of his life comes on screen at once. She's sitting in the middle of their gigantic bed, knees tucked to her chest. He can read the post-orgasmic flush in her dreamy smile and lowered lashes.

"Did you like the first act, sweetheart?" he asks, leaning against the ice cream freezer.

"You know I did," she says. Her chuckle warms his belly. "Baby me is just precious, isn't she?"

"You certainly are," he agrees. "You're sure that you're still a virgin this year? Because you didn't move like one. At all."

She chuckles. "Virgin doesn't mean I didn't know what felt good. Sneak into my old apartment and check the drawer to the left of my bed if you get a chance. Lots of fun things in there."

Now _that_ is an ideal with plenty of appeal. "Mmm…maybe after I fuck Baby Boss into a coma."

"Where a condom," she says. "We want an alternate time stream where I lose my virginity to the love of my life, not one where you knock me up at seventeen."

Matt laughs. "No. No we don't. God, can you imagine explaining that if DNA tests were ever done?"

She tosses her head back as she giggles. "I don't think there would be any explaining, just charges being filed. You haven't even hit puberty yet in that timeline."

He makes a face. "Yes, we don't want that." Licking his lips Matt cocks his head to the side, just a bit, a habit he has when thinking. His lover knows this well and she props her chin on her fist, silently affirming that she's all ears if he wants to talk. "Do you think you'll ever piece it together? You know, later, after we meet like we did in our timeline? Or after we're nested up properly and have the time machine at our fingertips?"

She shrugs. "Maybe. I'm interested to watch what happens in this little real-life fanfiction we're putting together."

Matt bites back a groan. "Ooh. I like that. You always know how to get me going."

"That I do," she smiles more smugly than anyone has ever had the right to. Matt adores her for it. "Go on. Go show Baby Me how to get you going. We'll talk about what you want for your anniversary gift after you get back."

"Oh, I already know what I want."

"Oh?"

"You know that fellow, Ricardo, the one who's _just_ starting to go gray at the temples?"

"The one you considered for The Cardinal when you were rebooting the other love of your life?"

He grins. "Yep. See if he wouldn't mind putting on those robes again and playing with us."

"Ooh. I'll have Zinjai lay out my habit and your cape then, Nyteblade."

"Would be greatly appreciated, Cannoness ."

She blows him a kiss. "Anything for you. Now go and make me scream. I'll be watching."

Matt puckers his own lips at the screen. "You got it. I love you."

"I love you too."

Matt pockets his phone and turns. The slight shimmer of air, hallmark of the cloaked C.I.D.s that traveled back with him to gather footage for his girlfriend's odd—but incredibly hot—self-voyeurism are still hovering above the car. Inside Baby Boss has her feet propped on the dash as she sings along with the radio. She's not the woman he loves, not quite yet, but it's a decent part of her sitting there and he intends to worship her tonight just as he has every night for the last five fantastic years.

Grabbing several of snacks and drinks from the various mini-mart shelves, he throws another crisp hundred dollar bill onto the counter and heads back to the car.

"Dude, how did you know these were my favorites?"

"Lucky guess, darling."

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**Author's Note:** I really tried, other than gender, to keep the Boss as nondescript as possible. Let me know how I did with that, y'all!


End file.
